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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




Cordelia Beardsley Wilder 



KITCHEN VISITS 
WITH THE MUSES 




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CORDELIA BEARDSLEY WILDER 



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Coventry, N. Y. 






1902 







THE L'SSARY t*F 
Two Copies f';iiCKivE9 

APR, 19 1902 

COfV«t«HT BNTR* 






Copyrighted by 
CORDELIA BEARDSLEY WILDER. 
1902. 



CONTENTS. 



f* The Old Organist. 
■^ More Truth Than Poetry. 
^ Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep. 
• Coventry M. E. Church. 

r Memorial Day. 
And They Sang a New Song. 
t^^The Old House at Home. 
r A Dream of Vacation. 
. Beardsley Reunion. 

Paddle Your Own Canoe. 

Sometime — Somewhere. 

My Mother's Slippers. 

Now Don't You Tell. 

Betsey Grim and Peter King. 

I was a Hungered and Ye Gave 
Me no Meat. 

The Troubled Pastor. 

He Leadeth me Beside the Still 
Waters. 

The Way of the World. 

Say, Must Our Country Perish? 

Dirge, for Lincoln. 

Donation in the Olden Time. 

Our Fallen President, McKinley. 

Nearer to Thee. 

Our Mission. 

Shall we Know Them Over There. 

Sowing and Reaping. 

In Memoriam, Lena Parker. 

One Small Life. 

Parodv on The Old Oaken Bucket. 



Dedication. 

When the Mist Clears Away. 

The Old House and the New. 

The Children are Coming Today. 

Life. 

They Say So. 

Our Martyr President, McKinley. 

Little Eva. 

The Best Spare Bed. 

looth Anniversary of Anna Hung- 

erford. 
The Dying Hero 
John and Jane. 

He Giveth His Beloved Sleep. 
Memorial Day. 
The Royal Castle. 
Now I Lay me Down to Sleep. 
Jo and L 

The Old School House. 
Silver Wedding. 
Bessie's Dream. 
The Sleeping Child. 
The Sweet-voiced Mother. 
Awful. 

Practice and Prayer. 
The Deep Rolling Sea. 
How Countrified. 
A Dream of Young America and 

True America. 
Mrs. Caudle. 
Grandpa's Story. 



DEDICATION 



To My Children. 



Many of these visits from the muses, have brig-htened my 
life in years long ago, and some of the visits have been re- 
cent, but nearly all these poems have been prompted while 
about the daily routine of work in the kitchen, and often 
when life's cares would seem too great, and my feet and 
hands were weary, then the muses would come, 

And the hours would seem brighter, 
While my cares would ^row lighter, 

for I never had the time, gift, or inclination to sit down 
quietly by myself, and write. I could always collect my 
thoughts with more rapidity when my feet and hands were 
busy. 

Thus amid my toiling, life's duties have not been irksome, 
and now as I dedicate this small volume of poems to my chil- 
dren, I am more faint-hearted than I used to be, yet I fancy 
they will read the inscription with pleasure, and my heart 
will be satisfied. 

As I am now looking towards life's sunset of gold, 
There's a picture beyond, of great beauty untold, 
'Tis the sweet summer land of an unclouded day, 
'Tis that glad promised rest, in that home far azvay; 
There, Til zvait by and by for my children to come. 
The glad union unbroken, in Heaven and home. 

Your Mother, C. B. W. 



HE LEADETH ME BESIDE THE STILL WATERS. 



T 



HE Lord is my Shepherd/' my Master, my Guide, 
He helpeth me o'er the rough river of care, 
No danger I fear from the swift rising tide, 
He leadeth my soul where the still waters are. 



Though often by waves of temptation I'm driven, 
He g-uideth my bark o'er the high foaming crest, 

And helps me to know that my sins are forgiven. 
He leadeth me by the still waters of rest. 

He points to a harbor that's safe and secure, 
Where wild bitter tempests forever will cease ; 

I know that His promises always are sure, 
He leadeth me by the still waters of peace. 

I trust in His mercy, so boundless and free, 

And ask for a heart that shall do His blest Will. 

For He died to redeem such a rebel as me 
And leadeth me by the clear waters so still. 

Then why should I care for the tempter's dread frown, 
Or heed the vain world with its folly and strife. 

If I take up my cross I shall gain me a crown 
And joyously drink of the waters of life. 



A DREAM OF VACATION. 

MY thoughts were for once in an odd medley hurled ; 
As I had a strange dream of this wonderful world; 
For the people were going to the east and the west; 
Curiosity at once was given a test. 
And the muses gave aid to cool speculation, 
As I saw the people were off for vacation. 
Then I saw in my dream the poor bo^'jt-black Tim, 
Crying, "Shine up your boots ?" — no vacation for him. 
And I dreamed of the washerwoman over the tub; 
From morning till night she does nothing but rub, 
And often she sighs, "Oh. could I but rest, 
But no, these fine clothes must be folded and pressed 
And left at the grand house over the way ; 
I wonder how long I must wait for my pay? 
I must wait, I suppose, till vacation is o'er, 
For they're fixing to go to the cool sea shore." 
Then I dreamed of the farmers and farmers' tired wives. 
Who have never a change in their long weary lives. 
And I dreamed of the seamstress bartering health 
In stitching rich fabrics for ladies of wealth. 
On her pale girlish brow I saw stitches of care 
And she wearily sighed for a breath of cool air. 
But no I she must stitch, perhaps live on a crust. 
For a poor sewing girl the baker don't trust. 
Then I dreamed of the sick ones prostrate w^ith care. 
With no one to nurse them or offer a prayer, 
For the strong ones were off where all care is unknown. 
On the clergyman's door was the sign, "Not at home," 
When the pastors return and call for their flock. 
If some fail to appear, will it be a great shock? 
Xo ! for, according to my calculation. 
They have folded their hands for a needed vacation. 
Well, I hear of vacations until that short word 
In my half-awake dreams has some strange thoughts stirred. 
For in my short dream of this wonderful nation 
I find there are some never have a vacation. 



T 



SOME-TIME SOME-WHERE. 

HERE is never a nig^ht so dreary and cold 

But the Shepherd is watching the lambs of His fold. 
There is never a sorrow so grievous to bear 
But there's peace and sweet comfort some-time 
some-where. 



There's never a storm, but will pass away soon; 

And the brambles must grow where the roses will bloom, 

For there's never a bud so fragrant and fair 

But will blossom in beauty, some-time some-where. 

There was never a heart but some cheering word 
Has down in its depths a deep tenderness stirred. 
There was never a hope and a true earnest prayer 
But was answered in mercy some-time some-where. 

There was never a pearl 'neath the ocean's blue wave 
That was hidden too deep for the diver so brave, 
He will search for the pearls and the treasures so rare. 
And bring up the diamonds some-time some-where. 

There was never an outcast pushed down so low 
But the stain could be washed even whiter than snow. 
There was never a song floated out on the air, 
But its echoes were wafted, some-time some-where. 



N 



NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. 

OW as memory's surge comes sweeping 
Like a torrent wide and deep. 
And I hear the sweet old echoes, 
*'Now I lay me down to sleep." 
Shall I wander in my fancy 

To the dear home-group once more? 
Listen to the tireless foot-steps 
Pattering on the kitchen floor. 

Shall I chide them in their frolic. 

Swinging on the broken gate? 
No! The 3^ears ahead of toiling 

Are enough to watch and wait- 
Where are now the laughing children, 

Roaming far with weary feet? 
O', that I could once more hear them, 

"Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Could I climb the shaky stairway 

With my aching, trembling feet, 
'Twould be joy to catch the whisper, 

"Now I lay me down to sleep." 
But I hear time's measured rhythm. 

Growing old, yes growing old; 
Onward, Onward, age is creeping. 

Silver threads among the gold. 

Scattered far and wide the dear ones, 

Wrestling with life's busy cares, 
But on memory's page is written 

Mother's love and childhood prayers. 
Though the old dear home is lonely, . 

Angels still their vigils keep. 
While that prayer floats ever upward, 

"Now I lay me down to sleep." 



LITTLE EVA. 

Only a short time before she died, she asked her mother to 
teach her the piece, '7^sus will carry me over the tide." 



A 



SNOWY white sail came close to the shore, 
You heard not the dip of the pale boatman's oar, 

Scarce caught a good-bye at the chill river side. 
But Jesus hath carried her over the tide. 



You will miss little Eva, but there she will wait. 
She is watching for you, at the bright pearly gate. 

The angels have borne her away from your sight ; 
She's only gone home, to bright mansions of light. 

For you there is loneliness, heartache and pain. 
For her, there is beauty, all sweetness and gain. 

Like some tiny young birdling, too tender and fair. 
Flown away to bright climes, singing songs, ''over there.'^ 

In the calm sleep of death she peacefully smiled 
And she waits over yonder, the same loving child, 

She is safe in His care, only just ''gone before." 
You will know her again on Eternity's shore. 

Her sweet childish laugh will ring out more clear, 
And her songs more sweet in that Heavenly sphere, 

She will grow in her beauty, in Heaven's pure air 
For Jesus hath carried her safe "over there." 



10 



AND THEY SANG A NEW SONG. 

(Suggested by reading Dr. Talmage's sermon from the 

alxive text. ) 



A 



ND they sang a new song — the harps caught the trill 
And hosts of the ransomed are singing it still. 
Yea, Heaven's cathedral resounds with the song 
As waves of bright glory doth bear it along. 



We sing our songs feebly while here upon earth, 
But there, we shall learn all their grandeur and worth, 
Then hov/ sweet it will be when in Heaven to sing 
That glad song of joy, 'T'm the child of a King." 

That song will be new, as Christ's glories unfold. 
The half of its richness hath never been told. 
Its sweet strains of gladness are yet rising higher 
As millions are joining the heavenly choir. 

While eternity's ages are rolling along 
All the love of our hearts shall ring from that song, 
In that sweet land of rest, when our toilings are o'er 
We may sing the new song, safe, safe, evermore. 

O, the new song of triumph, of joy and of love; — 
God grant that at last we may sing it above. 

And that song shall be grander and mightier then 
As all the redeemed swell the chorus. Amen. 



PARODY ON THE OLD OAKEN BUCKET. 

HOW dear to my heart are the old-fashioned dresses, 
When fond recollection presents them to view, 
Without any ruffles, or tucking-, or trimmings, 
And e'en the high aprons my infancy knew. 
The old-fashioned dress, and the plain quaker bonnet, 
The thick heavy shoes, and the plain woolen shawl, 
The stockings of blue, but ye may depend on it, 
The old-fashioned dresses are dearer than all. 

The old-fashioned dresses, the plain-fashioned dresses, 
The old-fashioned dresses are dearer than all. 

That old-fashioned dress I would hail as a treasure ; 

'Twould save me such hours of hard stitching and pain. 
To make up my dresses without all this fussing. 

To make them up simple, and modest and plain. 
How ardent I worked then, with hands that were nimble 

And fashioned a dress with no trimming at all. 
Ah, then with a heart of contentment o'er flowing 

The old-fashioned dresses were dearer than all. 

The old-fashioned dresses, the plain fashioned dresses. 
The old-fashioned dresses were dearer than all. 

How sweet to reflect that our grandmothers never 

Did follow such fashions as we do tO' day ; 
Yet, good common sense is as common as ever, 

But hard to retain I am sorry to say. 
Though now I am trying to follow the fashion 

The tear of regret will intrusively fall. 
As fancy reverts to the days that were olden. 

And sighs for the dresses much dearer than all. 

The old-fashioned dresses, the plain fashioned dresses, 
The old-fashioned dresses much dearer than all. 

12 



OUR MARTYR-PRESIDENT— McKINLEY. 

T is God's way; His will be done," 

Thus said our dying chieftain brave; 
Then, cruel death, where is thy sting? 
And where thy victory, O grave ? 

From kingly courts, from cottage small, 

From every land across the sea, 
There blends in one unbroken strain, 

"Nearer, my God, nearer to Thee." 

Our loving ruler, kind and brave — 
Cover him o'er with choicest flowers. 

While bleeding millions trusting say, 
God's way and will be done, not ours. 

Resigned and sweet his last good-bye; 

His feet have touched the shining strands, 
A regal coronet set with stars. 

Placed on his brow by God's own hands. 

A million silent prayers ascend 

For her who, patient, trusting, waits 

To greet her loved, while angel hands 
Are beckoning from the golden gates. 

While from Columbia's bleeding side 
We turn with piteous, sorrowing cry. 

There comes a purpose firm and strong — 
Foul anarchy at last shall die. 

Sweeter than e'er the grand old hymn, 
Sung by that martyred spirit free, 

Answering chimes come home from heaven, 
"Nearer, at last, my God, to Thee." 



13 



T 



THE ROYAL CASTLE. 

Christmas Song. 

(Metre, "Life's Railway to Heaven.") 

HERE'S a grand and royal castle, 
'Tis the weary traveler's home; 
It hath many, many mansions. 

And the King doth bid us come; 
Though the road is rough and rugged, 

Thorny brambles pierce our feet, 
Yet we'll reach the royal castle 
When our journey is complete. 

CHORUS. 

Blessed Saviour, we will trust Thee, 
To Thy outstretched arms we'll come ; 

'Tis the star of Bethlehem guides us 
To- our royal castle home. 

Here are those who faint and falter ; 

Burdens seem too great to bear; 
Homeless here, yet Jesus points them 

To that castle over there. 
Here was one cold feet and ragged, 

Only just the drunkard's child; 
There she tunes her harp with angels, 

Clad in garments undefiled. 

Here was one, a sinful creature. 

By a cruel world pushed down; 
There, she owns a queenly mansion. 

On her head a golden crown. 
For she gave her heart to Jesus, 

While He whispered, daughter come; 
Then throughout the royal castle 

Angels shouted, ''Welcome home!" 

14 



There, are parents wait for children, 

In that royal castle high ; 
There, are children wait for parents, 

They are coming by and by. 
We will lay aside our garments 
On this dusty — traveled road 

When we reach that royal castle; 

'Tis the dwelling place of God. 

'Tis the star of Bethlehem guides us 

To our King upon His throne; 
Though His birth-place was a manger. 

Royal castles are His home. 
Let us joyful swell the anthem. 

Sing it o'er and o'er again, 
"Glory be to God, the Highest, 

Peace on earth, good will toward men." 



15 



N 



PADDLE YOUR OWN CANOE. 

O matter what others may say tO' you, 
No matter what others may do. 
You never will have a stroke of good luck 
Till you paddle your own canoe. 



No matter how deep and how strong the tide, 
You never will struggle quite through. 
Unless you are firm and work with a will 
And just paddle your own canoe. 

Don't lean on the oars of this one and that. 
Perchance others are struggling too. 

But willing and strong, launch out from the shore. 
And just paddle your own canoe. 

Don't worry and fret, and sigh o'er bad luck. 

For the earnest ones never do. 
They will only tell you, ''start out again," 

And just paddle your own canoe. 

Don't grumble because you are left behind ; 

There are others paddling too, 
So double your strength, ply faster your oars, 

And just paddle your own canoe. 



16 



T 



THE BEST SPARE BED. 

HERE is a kindness seems too great, 
Which you will see as I relate 
With lingering chills of fearful dread, 
How I detest the "best spare bed/' 

Once on a time, with heart so warm^ 

I started out 'mid winter's storm 

To visit friends some miles away, 

And over night was urged to stay ; 

The night outside was chill and drear; 

Within was warmth, and light and cheer; 

Then merrily the hours flew by. 

Till little Jamie drew a sigh, 

Then, nodding slow the curly head. 

He lisped, "'Tis time to go to bed; 

I saw the slowly flagging fire 

And said that I would then retire. 

I knew not then my awful doom. 

But followed aunt to that spare room^ — 

Went through the long and vacant hall. 

Where footstep scarce was heard to fall 

Then followed on until it seemed 

Icicles from the ceiling gleamed; 

My hands were numb, my feet did ache, 

I followed auntie for her sake, 

For, on with wondrous pride she led 

To that spare room and that best bed ; 

Then wishing me sweet pleasant dreams. 

She left me happy, as it seems. 

Now, every thing was just in place. 

The curtains looped with charming grace; 

The pillow shams were laid just right. 

The counterpane was snowy white ; 

But oh, the half has not been told. 

My teeth were chattering with the cold ; 

Chill after chill did o'er me creep; 

17 



The night wore on, no hours of sleep ; 
Tighter the quilts around I drew, 
Their dampness only chilled me through; 
I conjured horrid dreams untold, 
I knew I'd caught my death of cold. 
And from that night I've always said : 
"Don't put me in the best spare bed." 



18 



ONE HUNDREDTH ANNIVERSARY OF ANNA 
HUNGERFORD, COVENTRY. 

rURN backward the years of time, dear mother, 
And let the bright scenes of fond memory come. 
When you lovingly watched o'er the days of our 
childhood ; 
The days long ago in the old house at home. 
You may list once again for the echoes, dear mother, 
Of wild rippling laughter, so joyous and free; 
You may rock us to sleep, and then watch o'er our slumbers, 
While a Father in heaven shall watch over thee. 

You may listen once more for the quick eager patter 

Of swift, tiny feet on the old kitchen floor ; 

You may smile at our loss, as we reach for the sunbeams, 

Darting bright rays through the half open door. 

We will twine just again the wild buds and sweet daisies, 

In your bright golden hair, as in days that are flown ; 

We will wait for thy kisses to banish each sorrow 

Dear mother we'll sing the old music, "sweet home." 

Then we know not a care, not a grief, nor a sorrow ; 
You banished each tear with a mother's fond kiss ; 
You guided our feet in the way of our Saviour ; 
Dear mother, we'll greet you in mansions of bliss. 
Already thy feet have nigh touched the chill waters; 
Thou hast trusted in Jesus, thy crown hath been won. 
Dear mother we'll sing as we journey together 
The soul-cheering anthem, *'We're all going home." 



THE DYING HERO. 
General Grant. 



A 



NATION must waken from hope's flattering dream; 
Our hero is nearing the chill narrow stream, 
As swiftly the moments of life glide away, 
God grant that his faith may be strengthened each 
day. 



The echo of footsteps that friends have loved long. 
Are dying away like a beautiful song; 
The voice now but whispers the brave cheering words 
That e'er will be treasured 'mid life's broken chords. 

He leaves far behind him the stern battle's roar 
And hears the light stroke of the pale boatman's oar; 
He catches a glimpse of the world bright and fair 
E'er hopeful and trusting to cross "over there." 

What matters the world with its wealth and renown, 
When all shall be left for a bright golden crown ; 
A nation is praying with calm trusting faith, 
God bless him while nearing the valley of death. 

May his trust in the Saviour securely abide 
When his feet shall e'en dip in the cold restless tide, 
May he calmly cross o'er when the toiling is done. 
And rest from the conflict forever at home. 



20 



w 



JOE AND I. 

E sat by the fireside together. 
Brave Joe and I, all alone. 
We were looking the last paper over, 
But with feelings we scarcely could own. 
We had come to the painful conclusion 
That poverty's struggle was great, 
And we must give up the old paper, 
And cheerfully yield to our fate. 

But alas! How a torrent of memories 

Came forth with the swift blinding tears; 

As I thought how we'd carefully treasured 

The faithful old paper for years. 

It had come like a friend at all seasons. 

In moments of pleasure and pain. 

But somehow, just now was the question: 

Shall we take the old paper again ? 



Then I tearfully peeped in the closet. 
Where cobwebs had spun to the floor ; 
And there were the shelves of old papers 
Which Joseph and I had read o'er. 
Again came the hard studied question. 
Shall we give up a friend that is true? 
Or shall we eke out from the larder 
Enough for the editor's due? 

As Joseph and I shall get older, 

The dreams of our life pass away ; 

We shall want our dear friend, the old paper; 

We shall need it, the same as to-day. 

No longer in doubt can I struggle. 

We must take the old paper again ; 

As I send you our yearly subscription — 

Joe cheerfully breathes an Amen. 

21 



L 



BETSEY GRIM AND PETER KING. 

ONG years ago, I've heard it said. 

Lived Peter King-; his wife was dead, 
So he was master of his home 
Till Betsey Grim just chanced to come 
And ask him could she stay and work ? 
His floors were covered deep in dirt. 
His rough boys needed some one's care; 
Their clothes were all the worse for wear. 
So Betsey was her post assigned, 
But always must her matters mind. 

Then wondering, did she note each day 
While Peter ruled with lordly sway, 
Down in the cellar was a charm. 
Now surely it would do no harm 
For her to peep' just down the stairs 
(She'd try meanwhile tO' say her prayers). 
But, O, what misery did befall — 
That cider-barrel told her all. 

Then Betsy could not mind her place. 
But told him all right to his face, 
And kindly whispered, "Sir, beware. 
That drink you love, may prove a snare 
To lead your boys in ruin's track." 
He only laughed, and she went back 
To scrubbing dirt with might and will, 
Resolved, henceforth she would keep still. 

Now, there was Peter, James and John, 
Harry and Dick fast coming on. 
They longed to taste the cider, too; 
But father said 'twould never do 
Till they could work upon a farm; 
Hard cider, then, would do no harm. 
And father's word with them was law, 
So they sucked their cider through a straw. 



At length the lads much wiser grew. 
Learned more than father ever knew. 
So with arch looks and manners sly 
They'd ask — ''Dear father, are you dry?" 
Of course he was — the thoughtful boys 
Just loved to share dear father's joys. 
And well they knew 'twas joy for him 
To fill the pitcher to the brim 
With pure hard cider, bright and clear. 
The father deemed no danger near. 

Then fast they flew, down cellar stairs, 
While Betsey hurried o'er her prayers. 
Too late, too' late, will you believe, 
Each boy was laughing in his sleeve. 
They knew that father soon would yield 
And leave them conquerors on the field 
So when the second glass he drained. 
He looked around with smile constrained. 
And said, my boys, you'll soon be men, 
A drink won't hurt you now and then. 

They filled their glasses then and there — 
Their father faintly said, "Beware!" 
No use, the truth cannot be hid, 
They only did as father did. 
Drinked first the cider, then the gin. 
Despite the prayers of Betsy Grim, 
Until at last they felt the shame 
That rests upon a drunkard's name. 

The years rolled by and Peter King 

Resolved upon a manly thing ; 

To snatch his boys from ruin's door 

And taste the poison never more. 

But as he knew, ah yes ! too well 

That cider had its tale to tell. 

He called his boys all down the stairs 

(Again poor Betsey said her prayers). 

23 



Now boys, he said, you hear my laws — 

That cider barrel is the cause 

Of every trouble, every fear 

That's harassed us like demons here. 

Now, never will we taste again 

That drink, but act once more like men. 

And while they cried — No, never more. 
The cider poured out on the floor, 
While Betsy Grim, with joyful prayers. 
Stood listening, near the cellar stairs. 
"At last," she chuckled in her sleeves, 
"We'll have that barrel under the eaves. 



5 



NOW I LAY ME DOWN TO SLEEP. 

TAY YOUR rapid flight, O Time, 

As memory's long-lost echoes chime. 

Let to-night a mother's prayers 

Lighten child-hood's transient cares. 

Let mother's kiss rest on my cheek 

As, "Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Ah, how years of toil and strife 
Have crushed the cherished hopes of life, 
But to-night as memories come 
Of mother, childhood, love and home. 
Angels again their vigils keep 
As, "Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Discordant notes of sin and wrong 
Have often jarred life's hopeful song, 
Then weary of earth's toil and pain 
I live o'er childhood's hours again, 
And peaceful slumbers o'er me creep 
As, "Now I lay me down to sleep." 

Softly let the shadows fall 
O'er memory's pictures on the wall; 
Again amid life's tempests wild 
A mother sooths to rest, her child, 
"Now I lay me down to sleep, 
I pray the Lord, my soul to keep." 



25 



READ IN COVENTRY AT THE SERVICE, MEMOR- 
IAL DAY, MAY 30TH, 1 89 1. 

ANON, our nation hears the death roll-call, 
Mustered out of service ! Brave Sherman gone ! 
An honest, gallant, brilliant, noble soul 
Surrendered intO' the eternities. 
He's gained the final victory and rests 
With Sheridan and Grant, true loyal hearts ! 

Our soldier boys, our daring volunteers; 
Defenders of our country's sacred rights; 
The roll of honor, longer, brighter grows 
As angel hands transfer such names on high. 
The last bivouac on earth is o'er, they heard 
The last reveille call for them to march 
To victory, beyond life's battle-field. 

Softly blov^ the bugle, comrades ; they rest 
From every conflict, every strife and care. 
Wrap round them close the honored Union flag 
That floats half-mast, a nation's pledge of grief. 
Muffle the drums ! The brave true heroes rest, 
The sword is now withdrawn, a golden shield 
The victor's prize, and Christ the Conqueror. 

Let us turn o'er the past, while fresh memories come 
As we heard the tramp, tramp, of boys marching from home^ 
And for what were they marching so' bravely away ? 
Ah, ask a proud nation that gathers to-day 
With choicest of garlands, all fresh with her tears, 
Loved memory's tribute for thirty long years. 

Shall we keep back the tide of old memories true. 
As we brush off the dust from a worn coat of blue? 
Shall the echoes that roll from Fort Sumpter be lost ? 
When our flag has been saved — but oh, at what cost ! 
Yet, the star spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave. 

26 



Bright flag of the free ! To the brave thou art given. 
The hues of thy stars were born in bright heaven; 
O'er our free happy land, on the bhie ocean wave. 
Thy stars as a trophy shall shine o'er the brave, 
And thy colors shall tell of the noble and true, 
Sweet Liberty's symbol — the red, white and blue. 

Then come with sweet flowers for the daring and true. 
Come with memory's tears for our brave boys in blue; 
But while many are sleeping 'neath southern skies fair, 
Let us tenderly breathe a deep, thoughtful prayer, 
That some loving hands will in kindness to-day 
Place the lilies alike o'er the blue and the gray. 

The camp fires are out, and the drums beat no' more. 
They are resting from strife, yes, the conflict is o'er; 
But their fame and their glory will ne'er be forgot, 
As honor and valor proudly point to the spot 
Where thousands of dear ones so^ bravely did fall. 
While some are yet waiting toi hear the roll call. 

Where are the veterans now ? See, the ranks thinning fast, 
Some are yet marching on, almost home, home at last. 
While the pitying sky with swift time doth e'er weep 
O'er the flower-decked graves of our heroes that sleep, — 
Our brave daring soldiers ! Our boys in true blue ! 
Now resting they wait for one last grand review. 



27 



w 



WHEN THE MIST CLEARS AWAY. 

HEN the mist clears away we shall see the bright gleam 
Of the pale boatman's oar as we cross o'er the stream, 
And no dangers we'll fear from the swift rising tide. 
But trust in the promise of Jesus, our Guide. 



No dark clouds of gloom when the mist clears away. 
But sunshine forever in that heavenly day, 
No lonely night hours in that home of the blest; 
No tired aching feet in that haven of rest. 

When the mist clears away there'll be no restless dreams. 
We shall see the bright light of the sun's golden beams, 
There'll be no more sorrow, no sighing or pain, 
No partings that sever the links of love's chain. 

No burdens to carry, no crosses to bear, 
No joys but the loved ones forever may share. 
No tired trembling hands, no hot blinding tears. 
No wanderings then, neither murmur nor fears. 

When the mist clears away, and the storms are all o'er. 
We shall greet our "own loved" on Eternity's shore 
There'll be no dark valley, but all shall be bright. 
When we pass through the gate to that city of light." 



28 



THEY SAY SO. 

I WAS jotting it down in my journal one day 
Some truth and some gossip, of what they do say, 
For it seems that some tongues forever will clatter, 
Regardless of truths and that's what's the matter. 
Although the plain truth should not always be said, 
(Be still and keep mum, is much better instead. 
I write what they say, and they say what I write; 
The editor better just keep out of sight. 
They say strange things on this wonderful globe 
So who can be patient and perfect like Job? 
They say that the teacher don't know how to teach. 
They used to keep order with birch and with beech. 
They say that the poets cannot write a song, 
For the verses are either too short or toO' long, 
The deacon is stingy, the lawyers will lie, 
The doctors will live but their patients will die; 
That the miser will starve, the merchant will cheat, 
And the rich will begrudge what the poor people eat. 
And the strict stern set, that you never can please. 
Make their prayers so long, they wear holes in their knees. 
And the editor sits in his soft, eas}^ chair, 
The reporter says "murder;" he merely says ''where?" — 
He throws in the waste basket plenty of stuff 
That most of the people would call "good enough." 
But he lays it aside without care or pains. 
And they say that he mutters about people's brains. 
Be he sinner or saint, there is none that is free 
From what they do' say, even you and poor me ; 
But if there is one mortal, O, bless the dear soul ! 
O'er whom the deep waves of affliction doth roll. 
It is the poor minister racking his brain 
For doctrines and texts that are truthful and plain. 
But in spite of his preaching, his precepts and prayer, 
He hears what they say, and they say they don't care. 
They say with a sneer that he preaches sO' low 
That you guess at one half, and the rest you don't know ; 



While some of them say, that he preaches so loud 
That he frig-htens away one-half of the crowd ; 
The good sisters complain that he preaches so long- 
That they dream of their dinners, although it is wrong, 
While some of them say, with a terrible groan, 
That he just reads the text and then they go home. 
And the sinners all say it -is certainly sure 
He visits the rich and slights all the poor. 
The old elders do hint with a threatening frown 
That he ought to please every body in town, 
That he ought not to live on the very top shelf; 
He should send to the heathen, and have less himself. 
And the members all say, it is awful, "O, dear," 
He should get such a salary most every year ; 
Besides all the presents of biscuit and hash, 
Molasses and beans, which is as good as the cash. 
Then a blue deacon says he's too witty and gay. 
Which is dreadfully shocking, the sober ones say. 
And a fun-loving- brother says he seems so sedate, 
As if laughter and smiles were never his fate; 
And a spinster of forty says with wisdom profound. 
That if he ain't married, he'd best look around — 
The cautious say no! for a minister's wife 
Must be patient as Job, all the days of her life. 

Well, I've studied the matter by night and by day, 
What this one, and that one, and all of them say, 
And wisely have judged that life's trials are small. 
The faults of our friends are not weighty at all. 
If we censure them less, and pray for them more. 
We shall hear better things than e'er uttered before. 
And if we hear aught against sister or brother. 
Let it go in at one ear and out at the other. 



MORE TRUTH THAN POETRY. 

N ancient days as the stories say, 

Strange hap befell one on life's way, 
For turn whichever way he would. 
He ne'er was praised for doing good ; 
Censured by friends, hated by foes. 
His life seemed full of endless woes. 
Although he seemed all wrong to shun, 
Plodding along and injuring none. 
Yet various rumors reached his ear 
Of what "they said," and things severe 
So troubled him with worlds of care. 
The burden was too great to bear. 
And crushed with shame, and helpless grief, 
Death came at last to give relief. 

How changed the scene; in death so cold. 
Friends crowded 'round, numbers untold ; 
With beautiful flowers they covered him o'er, 
And wished the lips could speak once more; 
They told how great and good he'd been. 
Had always shunned the path of sin. 
And how his noble life and aim 
Had won for him a spotless name. 
Ah, friends, the beauteous flowers you gave 
And scattered o'er that silent grave. 
The loving words you spoke in praise 
Could not recall the by-gone days ; 
The kiss you pressed on that cold hand 
Stern Death could not well understand. 

O, better far, kind words to speak. 

Ere death's still touch shall pale the cheek 

And better carry brightest flowers 

To troubled ones in life's brief hours; 

Better not wait till all is hushed. 

Till life has fled and heart-strings crushed, 

31 



For many a broken heart is hid 
Beneath a tear-stained coffin lid; 
O, better string some quivering chords. 
And better speak kind loving words 
To living ones. Death holds no claim 
On hollow praise and deathly fame. 



32 



w 



THE OLD HOUSE AND THE NEW. 

E must move in the new house to-morrow. 

The house lately built by our son, 
Our hearts were so joyous, dear Ma.8^gie, 
When they told us the new house was done. 



Then good-bye to the old humble kitchen. 
For our grandchildren say there's no room, 

So we'll go 'neath high walls that are frescoed 
But tearfully leave the old home. 

There's the rickety stairs where our children 

Have tumbled so oft in their glee. 
There's the recess where they have held meetings 

And asked us their hearers to be. 

There's a room just in there, my brave Maggie, 
Where it seems that we surely must stay; 

There we kissed the cold cheek of our Willie, 
Ere they laid him so sadly away. 

Here we've brought up our children together, 
And held them by love's mighty charm.. 

They have labored and paid up the mortgage 
That left us the old house and farm. 

Shall we be any happier, Maggie, 
When leaving these rooms all alone? 

When we cross the old threshold to-morrow 
And pass o'er the new one called home? 

Shall we shut the old gate that is broken, 
Shall we lean on its post as of yore? 

Shall we keep back the tide of sweet memories 
That surge all around us once more ? 



Dear Maggie, the years are swift rolling, 
Time tells us that we're growing old. 

And I see 'mid your thin wavy tresses 
Silver threads intermingled with gold. 

We must go to a home that is grander. 

Then wait till the summons shall come 
To pass o'er the threshold that's golden. 
Yea, Maggie; our heavenly home. 



34 



I WAS A-HUNGERED, AND YE GAVE ME NO 

MEAT. 

I WAS weary of wanderings, of toiling and strife, 
And was looking for sunshine to brighten my life, 
But there dawned no bright gleams that were joyous 

for me, 
I was tossed like a mariner on the rough sea ; 
No one tO' help me though burdened and weak, 
I was a-hungered, and ye gave me noi meat. 

I looked, but in vain, for the friends that I loved 
In prosperity's hour, their friendship had proved ; 
But when the chill winds of adversity came. 
They mocked me and left me in sorrow and shame. 
They smoothed not the way for my torn, bleeding feet, 
I was a-hungered, and ye gave me noi meat. 

O, had you knelt down on the cold chilly ground. 
And gently bound up the poor sufferer's wound, 
But you coldly passed with contempt and with pride, 
And thus in your coldness your Saviour denied, 
Ye gave me no drink when o^'erburdened with heat, 
I was a-hungered, and ye gave me no meat. 

I eagerly strove in life's promising hours 

Toi grasp but a handful of fresh blooming flowers. 

But they withered and died and the world never knew 

I had struggled to grasp the good and the true. 

There was sweat on my fore-head and thorns in my feet ; 

I was a-hungered, and ye gave me noi meat. 

I had wandered away from the kind Shepherd's fold ; 
I was out in the dark, the storm and the cold. 
No angel of kindness to lead me along; 
Forget all my faults, and forgive every wrong, 
I was reaping the tares, I had gathered no wheat, 
I was a-hungered, and ye gave me no meat. 

35 



I heard a loud voice, saying, "Go in the field 

And gather the sheaves, while the harvest doth yields 

Go after the wanderers, gather them in, 

And tell them of Jesus, who cleanseth from sin. 

Go raise up the fallen and seek the lost sheep." 

But I was a-hungered and ye gave me no meat. 

But there came a disciple of mercy and love 
And told me of rest in the heaven above, 
Where Jesus stood waiting to welcome me in 
To wash away guilt and to cleanse me from sin ; 
That disciple of love in bright glory is crowned 
And angels rejoice o'er the lost which is found.'' 



86 



T 



DONATION IN THE OLDEN TIME. 

HEY had a donation in the days of olden time 

And they urged me to go, for I was then in my prime. 
So I went with the rest, but took paper and pen. 
Resolved I would write all that happened just then. 



They had oysters that night and O, they're such a treat, 
And the way they cooked them, too, I'm sure it can't be beat, 
When they handed me my plate I took it with a smile, 
But after vainly fishing 'round and searching for a while 
In hopes that but a shadow of the substance might be found, 
I found a single oyster swimming 'round and 'round. 
They had a lovely frosted cake, and O, it looked so good 
I thought we all would have a piece as everybody should. 
But O, what anguish filled my heart, my neighbor whispered 

low, 
"That tempting cake somebody made, was just put on for 

show." 
But O, such piles of biscuits, they seemed like mountains 

high, 
And all the while they passed them; ah me, they just passed 

by. 
For somehow they looked so' heavy, and seemed so dreadful 

tough. 
But everybody was thankful, they had plenty, and enough 
To give the minister's wife; — They'd help her so, "poor 

thing." 
If she was only saving, they'd last her through till Spring. 
And then such splendid presents, — Wish I could tell them 

all. 
A second-hand coat for Sunday, and Johnnie a new ball. 
Another gift so generous, — A carving knife and fork, 
But what of that! — minus a turkey, I'm sure it wouldn't 

work. 
Pin-cushions, at least there seemed a score; 
Lamp-mats by dozens and tidies no less than four; 
Some cloth for the minister's wife a dress. 



37 



'Twas a very small pattern, allowing me to guess, 

But they talked it all over, and thought it would do, 

She could put on but one ruffle, instead of two. 

There was a five gallon jar which had once cracked in two, 

But some saving old soul had it mended with glue. 

It was nearly half-full and packed quite hard 

With, — you couldn't tell which — whether butter, or lard. 

There were four large hams ; they wern't very good ; 

Smith couldn't eat them, but the minister could. 

And Mr. Jones sent over four bushels of beets. 

For a minister's not very notional about what he eats. 

Well, donation was over, and they all went away. 
Expecting next Sabbath, their pastor would pray 

For God's blessing to fall 

On his parishioners all. 
But he chose for his text, what 'tis hard to believe, 
" 'Tis more blessed to give, than it is to receive." 



38 



u 



MEMORIAL DAY. 

P in the dusty garret high, 

There hangs a faded coat of blue ; 

Go look it o'er with tear-dimmed eye, 

It tells of patriots brave and true. 



It tells of victories and the cost ; 

A nation's hopes, her prayers and tears; 
Fort Sumter's echoes are not lost. 

Aye ! Rest in peace, our volunteers. 

All quiet o^n Potomac's shore. 
No drummer boy to beat the drum ; 
No' picket o'er the slumb'ring corps; 

The Great Commander called them home. 

Unfurl proud Freedom's flag to-day 
O'er these true soldier boys of ours, 

A "nation's tribute we would pay 

And cover them o'er with sweetest flowers. 

Then strew the lilies fair to-day 

With love and kindness o'er each sod. 

Honor the blue, remember the gray. 
True tO' our country, true to our God. 

Some loving hand in southern clime 

Some thoughtful heart with purpose true, 

May roses sweet with laurels twine, 
And scatter alike o'er gray and blue. 

Somebody's boys rest far from home. 
Matted with blood their curls of gold. 

But wrapped in shrouds of honor won, 
In higher ranks their names enrolled. 



The veteran's ranks are thinning fast, 
Hardly enough to fall in line; 

The Captain's call will come at last : 
*'Halt, now, and give the countersign." 

Take back the faded coat of blue 
And hang it up with tears of pride, 

Wrap 'round our honored boys so true 
Our nation's flag, for which they died. 

Cover with flowers our heroes true ; 

Muffle the drums, tread soft to-day. 
Wreaths of honor for boys in blue. 

Cover with charity's garlands the gray. 



40 



THE CHILDREN ARE COMING TO-DAY. 







MARY, life's burdens seem lighter, 

The dark heavy clouds roll away ; 
Why need we be lonely and tearful ? 
The children are coming to-day. 



Go-, open the close gloomy parlor. 
Swing back the shutters quite free. 

For the children will need the bright sunshine, 
They're coming with love and with glee. 

Go open the dusty dim garret. 

Clear out the old chest that is wide. 

For the children again in their frolic 
Will surely go in there to hide. 

Go bring down the old-fashioned cradle 
(It was never much in the way) ; 

Then nail on more firmly the rockers. 
Let the grandchildren have it to-day. 

And there's the old clock in the closet, 

Go set it a-ticking once more. 
It will count out the hours of the present 

As faithfully now as of yore. 

Don't tarry too long in the kitchen. 

But fix up a plump chicken pie, 
The boys will be hungry as ever, 

So pile up the doughnuts quite high. 

Let Rob have the jack-knife and whittle; 

No matter if shavings are strewn; 
Let the old walls re-echo with laughter. 

Let it seem like the old-fashioned home. 

We will kiss them good night again, Mary ; 

(How eagerly memories come) 
We will sing the old hymns together. 

And strike the old music, ''Sweet Home." 

41 



n 



MY MOTHER'S SLIPPERS. 

Y mother's slippers are quite well worn, 
And one of them is badly torn. 
I asked her once, what made it so? 
She said. Ahem,— ''Well, I don't know." 
And then there came some memories old 
The half had never yet been told 

About my mother's slippers. 

Once on a time I climbed the shelf. 
To jell and jam I helped myself. 
When all at once I heard a sound ; 
I tried toi quickly turn around. . 
My mother cried, ''What are you at?" 
O, then those slipers went spat, spat. 
My mother's faithful slippers. 

All sorts of tricks I used to try. 
When I got caught I wouldn't lie. 
I used to try my jokes on Pa, 
But didn't venture far with Ma, 
Though once tO' have some extra fun 
I slyly chewed up all her gum. 

And then she used the slippers. 

Like one possessed I couldn't rest. 

But jammed a stick in a hornet's nest. 

My mother cried: "My son beware;" 

I was in for fun, and didn't care. 

But learned a lesson, 'mid stinging joys — 

Slippers and hornets are bad for boys. 



42 







THE OLD HOUSE AT HOME. 

LD fancies and wishes are thronging my brain; 
I wish I were back in the old home again. 
But the bright days have gone, the long years have 

flown, 
And every thing has changed 'round the old house at 

home." 



The old gate tells the story of long, long ago, 

As on one rusty hinge it swings tO' and fro, 

But there seems a dread silence and dull shadows creep 

'Round the old house at home where they rocked me to- sleep. 

Yet with memories pleasing I fondly look back 
To' the sunbeams of love that have brightened my track, 
No room for the shadows of fear and of gloom 
With father and mother there in the old home. 



Ah ! All is so changed, the homestead seems lone, 
The old foot prints are gone, and new graves are grown, 
And I cannot keep back the fast blinding tears 
As the relics are scattered of bright early years. 

They have torn down the loom-house — yes, it was old. 

But there I have sat and wove fancies of gold, 

While mother was weaving with fingers of care. 

But though all is so' changed I would gladly go there. 

Let me dip the old bucket down deep in the well, 
Let me climb that old ladder where often I fell ; 
Let me rest once again in my own quiet room. 
Though everything has changed 'round the old house at 
home. 



43 



THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

HAVE money, fame and pride, 
You have none, so step aside. 
Don't stand begging at my door, 
I want to save one dollar more. 

My wealth's my own, I will not give 
It up to paupers while I live. 

I want a fortune ere I die; 
You can save as wxll as I. 

I wonder if I'll have to w^ait 

And knock awile, at heaven's gate 

Before they'll let me enter there 

With all my gold and treasures rare. 

I cannot bear to- leave them here, 

'Twould cost me many a parting tear; 

I'll try and take them o'er the tide 
And heaven's gates w^ill open wide. 

The rich and poor alike must die, 
And all within the church-yard lie, 

But, O, how shocking to my pride 
That rich and poor lie side by side. 

And, O, what dreams my slumbers haunt, 
Life scenes of misery and of want. 

Weak trembling fingers tired and cold. 
Reaching for bread; I toil for gold. 

God knows I pity all the poor, 
But I must save one dollar more. 

And those that really want for bread 
Are better off when they are dead. 

Don't tell me tales of want and woe, 
'Tis hard to let my dollars go, 

I would not drive you from my door. 
But I must save one dollar more. 



T 



NEARER TO THEE. 

HO' the way is so long and the path often rough, 
And I err in my toiUng is not this eno^ugh ? 
Yet a father in Heaven is watching o'er me. 
And the song of my Hfe shall be. Nearer to Thee. 



Yes ! Nearer to Thee is the cry of my soul, 

As my bark is nigh lost while the near waters roll, 

For not knowing sometimes where the hidden reefs lay, 

Nearer to Thee, is my surety and stay. . 

Tho' oft I am tossed by the waves of despair. 
Tempted and weary, and 'cumbered with care. 
Yet I'll trust in His mercy so- boundless and free, 
While all my life's prayer shall be. Nearer to Thee. 

What though I'm despised by the world and cast down. 
There's a cross for me here, but in heaven a crown ; 
As the seed that is sown, so' the harvest shall be. 
And the reapers' glad song should be, Nearer to Thee. 

Nearer to Thee, as I touch the chill wave. 
Singing, "Death has noi sting, and no victory the grave." 
Let me cross o'er the tide where they're waiting for me. 
Let me join the glad anthem of. Nearer toi Thee. 

Methinks the glad echoes of life's noblest song 
Are caught up in heaven by that happy throng ; 
Then how joyful and sweet shall the glad chorus be. 
When in heaven we sing, ''We are nearer to Thee." 



45 



SHALL WE KNOW THEM OVER THERE? 



w 



HEN earth's fondest ties are riven, 

And we've crossed the swelling tide, 
Shall we know our loved and loving 
Over on the other side? 
Shall we know the shouts of welcome 

From the loving ones that wait? 
Shall we know them as they're watching, 
Waiting at the golden gate ? 

Little feet that here have pattered. 

Making music all the day ; 
Little voices wild with laughter, 

Driving busy care away ; 
Little hands that gathered flowers^ — 

Twined them gaily in our hair, 
Little lips that kissed us softly, 

Shall we know them, ''over there?" 

Shall we know the tender mother, 

Though we kissed her pale and cold, 
Though her hair was streaked with silver, 

There 'tis tinged with Heaven's gold. 
Yes ! We'll know the sainted mother 

When we clasp her hand again, 
When she strikes one chord of music 

We shall catch the old refrain. 

We shall know earth's dearest treasures; 

Tread the golden streets with them. 
We shall join the heavenly chorus. 

Chanting there one great amen. 
We shall wear bright crowns in glory 

If our crosses here we bear. 
We shall know our King, our Saviour, 

And our loved ones "over there." 



WRITTEN AND READ AT THE BEARDSLEY RE- 
UNION IN COVENTRY. 







GENTLY turn backward the scroll of long years, 
The shadows and sunshine, the joys and the tears, 
Bright memories dear, are fast thronging my brain 
For the children have come to^ the old home asrain. 



■^fc)' 



Let me look on the past until it shall seem 
That life has been only a sweet happy dream ; 
But there's sadness and joy intermingled with care, 
There is toiling and hopes, and a vacant arm-chair. 

There are white tiny feet, that we miss here to-day ; 
They patter no more in their wild eager play ; 
Though sadly we laid them beneath the damp sod, 
Yet their spirits have gone to a true and just God. 

Let me look on the pictures of childhood once more. 
For in fancy I see the bright colors of yore. 
Again I am laughing in eagerness wild ; 
I am in the old home, I'm a light-hearted child. 

Now I'm searching the garret for treasures unseen; 
Now roaming the wood-lands, and meadows so green, 
Now watching the shadows that lazily fall 
In fanciful shapes on the old garden wall. 

Bright sunbeams I see through the cracks in the door, 
How they laughingly dance on the bare shaky floor. 
Farewell tO' the gathering shadows of gloom. 
My heart hears the echoes of home, sweet home. 

My mother is here, but with steps that are slow, — 
She tells me again of the days long ago, 
But her once raven locks now of silvery white 
Remind me that day is fast changing to night. 

Sweet memory stay! O, break not the spell. 
The dream has been sweet, I have loved it toO' well ; 
But though life's sun is setting and long years have flown, 
There's no music so' sweet as the strain of sweet home. 

47 



5 



LIFE. 

HALL we call this life a desert? 

Where no flower or beauty grows. 
Shall we thirst for cooling waters 

While the living water flows? 
Shall we watch the darkening shadows, 

Thinking all this life is drear? 
Why not reach for golden sunbeams ; 

They will scatter gloom and fear. 

We may sow the seeds of kindness; 

Some will reap, when we are gone, 
Though they ''may forget the singer,'' 

Yet they'll "ne'er forget the song." 
If the path seems long and dreary. 

And the night seems rough and wild, 
We may say, while simply trusting, 

Father, save thy trembling child. 

If we cannot conquer armies. 

Proudly sing the victor's song. 
If we cannot climb the mountain. 

Like the bravest pilgrim strong, 
We can cheer the sick and wounded. 

Raise the fallen and the weak, 
We can be Christ's loved disciples. 

Gladly sitting at His feet. 

Life is real, life is earnest. 

And the prize seems yet afar. 
Yet beyond this restless toiling 

There's a gate that stands ajar. 
Safe within are all the ransomed, 

Free from every care and strife, 
At the entrance stands our Saviour, 

Holding forth a crown of life. 

48 



JOHN AND JANE. 

WELL, John, I have been in the garret to-day 
And cleared out some rubbish that seemed in the way. 
Some things that were useless to us, I suppose, 
Such as old-fashioned pictures, some boxes and 
clothes, 
When at last in the corner I spied an old chest ; 
So I raised the old cover, and — you know the rest; 
It was filled with old papers we'd taken for years ; 
I looked them o'er fondly with smiles and with tears; 
There were some we had treasured so long, long ago. 
Dated back thirty years or e'en more, as I know ; 
And I said, shall I keep them e'en just for a while. 
Or burn them at once and thus clean out the pile? 
I shall only be doing as others have done. 
But I reasoned not long o'er the papers, dear John; 
For soon such a torrent of memories came 
As I looked o'er the papers again and again ; 
So I shut down the lid of that chest with great care; 
Resolved that forever, the papers I'd spare. 
Then I thought how we'd struggled for many a year, 
To keep the old farm from all mortgages clear; 
How often when weary and sick with the blues 
That paper would come with its rich varied news. 
And we always have tried for our paper to pay. 
For where there's a will, you know there's a way. 
They say that the editor lives by his wits, 
And the pay for his paper is all that he gets ; 
Now between you and me we've a right toi suppose 
The editor has to look out for his clothes 
And without any joking. 
It must be provoking. 
When butter and meat in the market are high. 
When we have to sell, and he has to buy. 
For us to withhold the brave editor's due 
When by paying him up, he could battle it through." 



"But we're getting old, Jane; I can't make it clear 
How to pay for the paper this next coming year, 
So we'll just give it up; let the matter now drop, 
Be resigned if we can, for the paper must stop." 

"No, John ; I have pondered this subject too well ; 
The old chest in the garret it's lesson may tell 
Of trials and heart-aches 'mid poverty drear, 
But we've managed to pay for the paper each year, 
Now we'll not give it up in such utter despair, 
Just leave it to me, and say you don't care ; 
Now you told me to-day you had sold a nice calf. 
Just hand me the bills; I'll send the editor half." 



COVENTRY M. E. CHURCH. 

THEY have fixed the old church over like new. 
And somehow, 'tis queer, I can't find my old pew. 
And then the new organ looks wonderful strange, 
But I know we surely have needed a change, 
For the old one they say had seen its best times, 
And the choir and the organ made varying chimes, 
But now — Rock of Ages, Old Hundred, and Mear, 
Coronation and China, — we plainly can hear; 
And the old creaking shutters that rattled so loud, 
Disturbing the heads in solemnity bowed, 
Were really things that seemed out of place. 
And often required much grit and true grace. 
But now we can say that all is quite right. 
The sleepers are sound, and the windows are tight. 
And the old worn carpet — remember, dear souls. 
How we used to step light on the patches and holes ? 
But the new one I'm sure will amply repay 
By its beauty and warmth, and last many a day. 
And so it is well that of one true accord 
The pastor and people have honored the Lord, 
By prompt, cheerful giving and true earnest prayers^ 
And hammers and nails for all needed repairs. 
Now with a just pride let us fondly look o'er 
The record of old, eighteen hundred fifty-four. 
This church was then built by strong willing hands 
And to-day, nineteen hundred, untarnished it stands. 
Then to God, our dear Father, the praise shall be given, 
Till we sing the new song in God's temple in Heaven. 



51 



To THE Bereaved Parents of Lena, Daughter of T. D. 

AND Eugenie Parker, Died in Coventry, 

Jan. i6th, i88i. 



D 



O you miss your little Lena, 

Sadly laid her toys aside ? 
Do you know that white-robed angels 

Safely bore her o'er the tide? 
Though you miss her childish prattle 

In your lonely hours of care. 
Yet, 'tis sweet to know she's watching, 

Waiting for you "over there." 

In that land of light and beauty 

There shall be no fear of death; 
There shall be no tearful watching. 

All are free from sorrow's breath, 
Jesus loved your household treasure; 

Angels whispered, ''Lena, come." 
Only passed from earth to Heaven, 

Waiting for you in that home. 

Through the pearly gates of Eden, 

Over on the other shore,. 
Precious jewels God hath given; 

They're not lost, but gone before. 
Though by death the chain is riven, 

Severed every earthly tie. 
Safe with Jesus, Lena's waiting. 

Watching for you, bye and bye. 

Hushed the cradle song of gladness; 

Only just the life begun, 
Jesus calls the little children, 

Strive to^ say ''Thy will be done." 



52 



N 



NOW DON'T YOU TELL. 

OW, don't you tell what I have heard. 

Such dreadful things to-day 
Now don't you breathe a single word 
'Tis dreadful, any-way. 



Now don't you tell a single soul, 
We'll try and keep it still ; 

I wouldn't dare to breathe it now, 
But you're so good, I will. 

Some one has said, somebody else 
Told them somebody said 

That Mrs. Brown said some one told 
They wished that she was dead. 

And then I heard that some one said 
That Deacon Gray got tight 

Because he nodded so' in churchy 
And didn't act quite right. 

Now, don't you tell a single one 

The way such stories go; 
I haven't told a single soul 

But you and Nell and Joe. 

I don't see what some folks can think 
To spread such awful ncAvs; 

For my part I shall keep just mum. 
And mind my P's and Q's. 



SAY, MUST OUR COUNTRY PERISH? 
Written During the Rebellion. 



5 



AY, must our country perish 

With all that's true and brave, 
The arm of right and freedom. 
Be powerless to save? 
Must we fling down our banner 

To' worthless traitors yield? 
Our heroes lie unhonored 
Upon the battlefield? 



Hark! Hark! There comes an answer 

That's pealing loud and long; 
We go to join our brothers 

Three hundred thousand strong. 
We yet will save our country, 

We know we can, we must ; 
We'll take the traitors' banner 

And trail it in the dust. 

'Twill be a tearful parting 

To bid loved ones adieu, 
But they will bravely cheer us, 

And tell us to be true. 
Our country shall not perish. 

Our hopes shall not be crushed, 
For God will surely bless us 

And aid the cause that's just. 

Oh, 'tis a fearful struggle, 

A nation's blood to spill. 
But the Union, now, forever ! — 

Shall be our motto still. 
O, yes ! We'll surely conquer 

The traitors ; they must yield, 
And we will bear in triumph 

Our banner from the field. 

54 



w 



THE OLD ORGANIST. 

ELL, wife, we must hasten just over the way 
And hear the new organ — I wonder who'll play? 
Some stranger, perhaps, but who, I can't tell 
Will touch the bright keys, I have loved so well — 
For my fingers are stiff and my eyes are so dim, 
I can scarcely trace out to-day the new hymn, 
Though it seems at times I can sweep' with ease, 
And with careless touch, the bright ivory keys. 

I fain would have seen the old organ once more 

Ere they carried it out through the wide church door. 

For a host of old memories blind me with tears. 

As I think how it faithfully served for long years ; 

They say it was rusty and failing each year — 

But somehow it seemed like a friend that was dear. 

And to me it did never look rusty and old 

As it's rich grand strains through the old church rolled. 

I suppose the new organ looks lofty and grand. 
But I fear the new music I can't understand. 
And the choir won't remember how I love tO' hear 
Ortonville and China, Rock, of Ages and Mear, 
I may try to sing some, but then if I try. 
They'll be through with the tune much sooner than I, 
So I'll sit back there, far back by the door. 
But it never will seem as it has before. 

Our old hymn books there^ — don't put them away, 

For the choir will be wanting them some day. 

They will search for the hymns we have loved so well. 

As the sexton is tolling the slow church bell, 

I know they will sing the old measures once more 

When our pilgrimage here through this valley is o'er, 

Perhaps the old strains will be echoed afar 

And caught up on high through the gate that's ajar. 

55 



I am getting old, wife, and my voice trembles so, 
They don't want me to sing in the new choir, I know. 
Besides they have changed most every old hymn, 
So I shouldn't know when nor where to begin ; 
But there's music in Heaven, can never grow old 
And we never shall tire of the glad harps of gold. 
And soon I shall catch the lost chords that are higher 
And touch the bright harps of the Heavenly choir. 



56 



H 



LINCOLN MURDERED 1865. 
A Dirge for Our President. 

ARK ! how the hushed winds chant in cadences sad, 
A dirge for our president, noble and true. 
Who has fallen a martyr to freedom and right, 
And has saved from dishonor our loved red, white 
and blue. 



Yes ! he saved our great nation the ruin and shame 
Of yielding to traitors our rights and our power; 

Then, Father in Heaven, Oh, wilt Thou sustain 
A sorrowful nation, this sad trying hour. 

Strong men are in tears, and the weak are bowed down ; 

A nation is stricken with grief at the blow ; 
But f oemen of freedom have sealed their own doom ; 

They have filled their own cup with the dregs of deep woe. 

Our President martyr ! Sweet peace tO' his soul ! 

He rests where no sorrow his deep slumber mars, 
While onward the tide of stern justice shall roll — 

Yes ! "Down with the traitors, and up with the stars." 

May the flag of our Union triumphantly wave. 
May our patriots fearless, all treason destroy. 

May the land of the free and the home of the brave 
Be crowned with the blessings of peace and of joy. 

But mournfully, tenderly speak of the dead. 
Who was true to our cause till life's setting sun; 

Let us pray while the tears of deep sorrow we shed. 
Our Father in Heaven, let Thy will be done. 



57 



BESSIE'S DREAM. 

DEAR mother, I've had such a beautiful dream; 
I stood on the banks of a clear shining- stream. 
And I caught but the glimpse of a light snowy sail, 
Heard the dip of an oar, then a boatman so pale 
Came and bore me away, far away o'er the tide. 
When I heard shouts of welcome as I gained the safe side; 
And is this Beulah-land, I wonderingly dreamed , 
Then I saw such a host of the loved and redeemed. 

And there was sweet Mary with blue eyes so mild, 
You know she was only the poor drunkard's child. 
How oft we have seen her out on the damp street, 
With thin tattered dress and bare aching feet. 
But there she was clad in a robe of pure white. 
On her brow was a crown set with diamonds bright. 
No tears for her now, no sobbing so wild, 
There's a home over there for the poor drunkard's child. 

There were groups of sweet children, so happy and bright, 

I caught the old chorus of ''Dare to do right." 

It floated from Heaven far back o'er the tide. 

It keeps little children upon the safe side. 

And there they were singing the story of old 

How He called little children, as lambs to His fold, 

There are songs they can sing, there are crowns they can 

wear; 
There are harps they can tune in that land over there. 

And then you remember one sad, dreary day. 
How they silently bore our loved grandpa away.. 
I looked with a sigh at the vacant arm-chair. 
But Mamma, I knew my dear grandpa there; 
You know he was blind, but now he can see, 
I think he was watching and waiting for me. 
And he seemed so- glad in those mansions so fair 
For the angels had smoothed all his wrinkles of care. 

58 



I saw not a tear and I heard not a sigh. 
No murmurings there in the sweet by and by ; 
There were no wild storms, and no long, long night, 
But one bright happy day in that city of light. 
Now rock me to sleep mother, breathe a low prayer, 
And hum the sweet words, '*Is my name written there?" 
Then the angels will watch as I dream once more 
Of that beautiful home on the evergreen shore. 



THE OLD SCHOOL HOUSE AND THE NEW. 

Memories of the Old School-House in the Bulkley 
District^ Coventry. 

A Rumor has reached me, I guess 'tis true, 
The old school-house is gone and they've put up the 
new. 

And well I rejoice at the wonderful change; 

But somehow it seems like a past that is strange, 
For a tide of old memories comes like a floods 
And I see the old school-house just where it stood; 
The play-ground is marked and re-marked with swift feet, 
They are playing ''King's land" or else ''Hide and seek," 
There's the old stone step, — it never stood square; 
But never mind now, for the scholars are there; 
They are all going in, the girls to the right; — 
Now step along, boys, and do be polite, 
Be careful and slow with that rickety door. 
Step light as you can on the old shaky floor. 
Who is that by the desk with his ferule and pen? 
Why 'tis good Deacon Hunt, he was not deacon then. 
But only the master, — Come, scholars, be still. 
For I must have order, and I surely will. 
First class in arithmetic, come and recite; — 
That old black-board though, why it looks like a fright. 
All chalk-marks and scratches, — wish the district was able 
To get a new board, some chalk and a table. 
Now first class in spelling, stand right there 
With your toes on the crack, all steady and square. 
I'll pronounce the hard words I find in this book, 
And the scholar who misses shall go to the foot, 
And those girls back there, who are bent o'er that slate. 
Making profiles of me that are not first rate, 
Can stand for a while out here on the floor. 
And, girls, I guess I wouldn't draw any more. 
The term is just o'er, and the scholars pass out. 
Some with tears in their eyes, some with laughter and shout. 

60 



But I cannot go yet, the old school-house looks grand, 
I must view it all o'er while the tottering- walls stand. 
Whose initials are these, carved on the back seat ? 
Ah, they meant them to stay, for the letters are deep ; 
How the paper wads stick to the walls overhead ! 
The result of hard work, the commissioner said.. 
Ah ! The scholars are gone and the years roll away, 
While other feet tread the old play-ground to-day. 
And tho' fondly I linger on memories true, 
Yet old school-house, good-bye, and good luck to the new. 



61 



TRIBUTE TO MR. AND MRS. W. H. SPENCER, ON 
THEIR TWENTY-FIFTH ANNIVERSARY. 

THERE was a sound of joy and mirth by night, 
And far famed Coventry had gathered then, 
Her beauty and her gallantry, and bright 

The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men; 
And many hearts beat happily, and when 
Music arose with its harmonious swell 
Echo answered back to echo which spoke again 
The long lost chimes of a marriage bell. 

Wait! Ring gladly the chimes of the bells for to-night; 
Turn backward the scroll of life's record so bright; 
Look over the past with its joys and its fears. 
The sunshine and shadows of twenty-five years. 

Yes ! Twenty-five years ! how the hours glide away. 
But back with the past let our memories stray. 
Ah ! Cupid was busy as ever just then. 
In aiding and choosing a blessing for men. 
Perchance through all ages the theme has been rung 
Oh, what would be home without woman's tongue? 
It soothes and it charms life's dull care away 
And never is weary by night or by day. 

A tribute is due to the true worthy pair 
That started out bravely life's struggles to share; 
Anon a dark shade may have clouded love's dream, 
Small blessings have cheered them, tho' few and far between 
The years have brought changes and clouds have rolled by; 
Bright sunbeams prophetic illumine the sky; 
Shall we prophesy joy and long years yet to come; 
With no discord to jar the old music "Sweet Home?" 

Shall we treasure the past, with its memories dear? 
Shall we lighten the present, with song and with cheer? 
Shall we heartily wish for this time-honored pair 

62 



That the skies of their life may be sunny and fair ? 

That the past and the present may never grow old ; 

That life's silver threads shall yet mingle with gold; 

That love and contentment forever shall bide 

In their hearts and their homes, as the years onward glide? 

And when all our meetings and partings are o'er 

And they pass from our sight to the echoless shore, 

We shall know they have labored and lived not in vain, 

And over the tide we shall meet them again 

Where the angels are striking their glad harps of gold, 

Where the loved and the loving shall never grow old, 

Where a crown of rejoicing forever is given 

To the reaper who gleans earth's sheaves for Heaven. 



A 



HE GIVETH HIS BELOVED SLEEP. 

NON, there seems to come to me 
Sweet strains oi Heaven's melody. 
But none with greater joy can roll 
Than that which thrilled the Psalmist's soul. 

And none with grace or love more deep, — 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What would we give to our beloved? 
A warrior's heart to' be unmoved 
Through life's stern battle, never yield. 
The burnished sword of truth to wield, 
The vows of trust and love to keep? — 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

What would we give to our beloved ? 

A heart of changeless friendship proved, 

A poet's lyre, an artist's soul, 

Earth's wreath of fame tO' grace the whole, 

The gold of toiling years to keep ? 

"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

We may not know nor question why 
The storms along our pathway lie. 
His plans and ways are ever right. 
Hath He not said, "My burden's light?" 
Though thorns may pierce our bleeding feet, 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 

This life is one vast fertile plain. 
Covered with sheaves of ripening grain; 
The harvest time shall surely come. 
The reapers shall be gathered home, 
We sow in tears, in joy we reap, 
"He giveth His beloved sleep." 



61 



THE TROUBLED PASTOR. 

THE pastor sat down in his favorite chair, 
To write out his sermon with greatest of care, 
He felt it his duty to cry against sin. 
But somehow was troubled to know how to begin, 
And he didn't know where his sermon might end, 
For not one of his flock would he dare tO' offend. 
There was good brother B, and good sister A, 
They were willing to work and ready to pay. 
But with others they thought that a minister sho'Uld 
Be more earnest and strong in his efforts for good, 
When really sometimes the parson's plain dinner 
Hardly gave him the strength to preach to a sinner. 
For many there were that would count out their dimes 
With sorrowful look, and the cry of ''hard times." 

Well, he finished his sermon and laid it away ; 

If the Lord directed, he'd preach it next day. 

He would mark out the way for each one tO' do good, 

And would point out their faults, let it hit where it would. 

The Sabbath morn came with brightness and cheer 

And again he looked over his subject so' clear. 

Looked carefully and prayerfully o'er it again 

And whispered oft-times, a low fervent amen. 

He arose in the church with a satisfied air. 

But first he must call for God's blessing in prayer; 

He prayed long and loud, that the fire from above 

Might re-kindle each heart with the flame of God's love. 

And somehow that prayer seemed to teach him the way 

In the name of his Master tO' preach and tO' pray ; 

He preached of God's love and His infinite grace; 

And the presence of God o'ershadowed the place. 

As pastor and people, each sister and brother. 

Shook hands and exclaimed, ''We v/ill stand by each other." 



THE DEEP ROLLING SEA. 
Trials of a Literary Woman While Trying to Write. 







THE bright bounding waves of the deep rolling sea, 
How they murmur at times (''Children, can't you let . 

me be?") 
For my thoughts are far off on the wide, rolling wave, 
Where the glad sailors sing, — "Children, won't you 
behave ?" 



How I love the deep sea with its white foamy crest ; 
How it laughs at the thought, — "Ma, I've tore my old vest." 
How I love the sweet chant of the deep rolling sea, — 
"Wife, Where's my new jacket; I'm off for a spree." 

When the proud, gallant ship on the billows is rocking, 
How the sailors all shout, — "O, wife, come darn my stock- 
ing." 
"Well, I will, to-morrow," — O, so many, many cares. 
How the sailors all shout, — "Sammy's fell down the stairs." 

O, for a grave mid the sea-weeds and grasses. 

And my requiem be, — "Ma, I want some bread and 'lasses." 

"Well, wait a little while," — let my requiem be 

The waves glad music, — ''Ma, Johnny struck me." 

O, the musical waves, — how the echoes repeat 
In far away murmurs, — "Ma, I've scalded my feet," — 
O, the sea is my home, far away from all cares,, — 
"Ma, you'd better get supper, for we're hungry as bears." 



PRACTICE AND PRAYER. 



ONE time I was shaken with deep wounded pride, 
I was thrown on the world to be just set aside, 
And I fancied that near me the de\41 did stand, 
Idly tossing- a book o'er and o'er in his hand; 
And while I stood looking and wondering there, 
I saw the book's title was "Practice and Prayer." 



Then I looked 'round the earth, in a palace so fair, 

I saw there were jewels and laces so rare, 

The mistress was praying, God pity the poor ! 

A beggar was standing just out by the door. 

She arose from her prayer, — "Now, vile beggar away! 

'Tis all I can do for such objects to pray," 

And while her harsh accents rang out on the air. 

The devil exulted and wrote down her prayer. 

Then I next looked around in a cellar so cold, 
A miser was counting his silver and gold. 
His long, bony fingers would clutch his loved store, 
As he prayed long and earnest, "O, that I had more, 
O, that I had more; 'tis my prayer while I live. 
The paupers may cry, but I've nothing to give. 
No, no, I have none of these treasures to spare." 
I looked, and the devil was writing his prayer. 

Then I next looked within a bright cottage home. 
Where want and misfortune had never been known. 
The mother was praying, "O, keep me from pride," 
(But wistfully sad, her new bonnet she eyed). 
"Now another bow here, and a few flowers there. 
Would greatly improve it for next Sunday's wear. 
Though I honestly feel from the depths of my heart 
That practice and prayer are a long ways apart." 

67 



I looked but again, and I saw a sweet child 
Uplifting to Heaven, her blue eyes soi mild. 
And praying, "O, Father, look down from above, 
Protect, bless and strengthen a child of Thy love; 
O, merciful Father, now hear while I pray, 
Wash all of my guilt and uncleanness away ; 
Keep me safe through temptation, from evil defend, 
For Thine is the kingdom, O, Lord, without end." 

I looked yet again, but the tempter had flown. 
That pure prayer wafted its way tO' the throne, 
And all through the courts of High Heaven did roll 
An anthem of pardon and peace to that soul. 



08 



T 



HOW COUNTRIFIED. 

HERE goes a farmer passing 'long 
Amid a gaping scornful throng; 
He pauses not, though on his way 
Their satins brush his home-spun gray. 
But some one murmurs^ with a sneer. 
How countrified he does appear. 

There goes a country farmer's wife. 
She's not much used to city life; 
She wears a bo-nnet which com.es o'er 
Her smilinsf face, a foot, or more, 
A city belle is near at hand. 
With all the airs she can command, 
(The milliner's bill takes all her gains, 
Which compensates for lack of brains), 
With jeering looks she passes by 
And quick upturns her scornful eye, 
Then turns her head in haughty pride, 
Aud murmurs, — Dear, how countrified. 

There goes an honest farmer's boy. 

His heart is light and full oi joy; 

He's clad in garments coarse, but warm. 

Manly and robust is his form; 

But ah, there's something caught his ear, 

It is a foolish stripling's sneer. 

That jeering says, — Don't he look fine? 

Just see his coat compared with mine, 

Look at his great thick clumsy boots, 

Ha! ha! How countrified he looks. 

There goes a wealthy merchant's son; 
He's always looking out for fun; 
Across the way he spies a lad 
Of honest face, but coarsely clad; 



The merchant's son calls with a shout, — 
"Say, — does your mother know you're out? 
And pray, how far from home are you. 
And how du your relations du ? 
I see you've got your fix-up clothes. 
Cut out oi gran' dad's, I suppose! 
Ha ! ha ! What barber cut your hair ? 
It's in the fashion, I declare. 

How countrified ! Ah, there's the test. 
The roughest diamonds come out best. 
So have a care o'er foolish pride. 
That jeering says, — how countrified. 



70 



5 



THE SLEEPING CHILD. 

LEEP on sweet childhood, while the angels 
Lovingly their vigils keep; 
Fitful dreams of care and sorrow 
Shall not break thy peaceful sleep. 



Resting sweet in childish beauty; 

Clustering curls of sunset gold; 
Smiling sweet in fairy dreamland. 

Dimpled hands their treasures hold. 

Softly kiss the little sleeper. 
Humming low the cradle song; 

Soon, too' soon, will come life's waking. 
Toilsome years oi sin and wrong. 

Breathe a tender, loving blessing 
O'er sweet childhood's blissful sleep; 

List for echoes faint in dreamland, 
I pray the Lord, my soul to keep. 



71 



A DREAM OF YOUNG AMERICA, AND TRUE 
AMERICA. 



HAD a short dream of the wrong and the right, 
And the dream was so strange and wonderful quite, 
That I thought it was best, as I woke from my sleep 
To note it all down, and the record to keep. 
I thought that I saw young America stand 
In his own modern way, the hope of our land, 
He was twirling a cane and rolling a chew. 
And deeply in debt, as I very well knew. 
So I listened in sorrow and wondrous disdain 
As he scornfully uttered his old father's name, 
"Now, see here, old dad, — don't you waste your advice 
On such chaps as me, — it don't sound very nice, 
And besides I am sure that I'm wiser than you, 
I've learned wonderful things that you never knew, 
All the knowledge you have is nothing but dross, 
And it's time you should know, that I'm my own boss. 
Why, I can drink whiskey, and brandy and gin, 
And bet with the gamblers, and generally win. 
I can smoke a cigar, and chew a good quid. 
That's more than old fogies like you, ever did. 
And I guess you will find 
That I am inclined 
To do as I will, without a piece of your mind. 
And I suppose as I look in the corner right there. 
That's gran' dad a nodding in his old arm chair; 
He's lectured me soundly full many a day. 
But he's blind, and he's old, and he's right in the way, 
And I wonder if he thinks that I ever will heed 
His slow words of caution, — no', never, indeed ! 
Farewell to the teaching and preaching of yore, 
I'm going on faster than ever before." 
But as headlong he rushed, and was lost to my view, 
I dreamed yet again of America true, 

72 



And I saw him in honor and bravery stand, 

A model of might and of right for oiir land. 

A father was telling him how to be wise; 

Good teachings of others to never despise; 

Toi smooth for the weary the furrows of care, 

To cheer up the troubled with song and with prayer, 

To keep steady march with the true, and the right, 

And with all honest workers most gladly unite. 

Then I saw young America rise with a will 

Toi banish forever the ''Worm of the Still." 

And America true seemed determined to shun 

The two greatest evils, — tobacco and rum. 



73 



M 



MY SWEET- VOICED MOTHER. 

Y dear, old-fashioned, sweet-voiced mother, 

''With eyes in whose depths the love light shone," 
With beautiful hands, though thin and wrinkled; 
My dear tired mother, thou hast left me alone. 



Those dear hands guided my feet when wand' ring, 
And smoothed my pillow in sickness and pain, 

The charm of other dear voices have left me, — 
My sweet-voiced mother, — O, come back again. 

Other bright faces have all been forgotten, 
In memory's fancy I wander once more, 

A wee, weary child to the old bare threshold. 

And my sweet-voiced mother holds open the door. 

My dear loving mother, with soft gentle kisses, 
Doth clasp me with joy in her arms once more, — 

I cannot forget these old-time pictures, — 

Dear mother come back from the echoless shore. 

The years have been long, and I'm lonely, dear mother, 
Though wisely you guided me over life's sands, 

But now I'm longing once more to be near thee, 
And feel the glad touch of your beautiful hands. 

You need not come back, my sweet-voiced mother, — 
Some day when I'm weary, to you I will come; 

With angelic hosts you're still watching o'er me. 
Your beautiful hands are beckoning me home. 



74 



5 



AWFUL. 

O'ME how to-day I feel so blue, 
And awful melancholy, 
Although an hour ago I tried 
To be so awful jolly. 

I went to church last Sabbath morn; 
An awful pleasant day. 
The preacher's theme was awful good, 
He's awful smart they say. 

The other night I wrote a piece 
For the Friday morning paper. 
To-day the editor sent it back. 
Now that's an "awful" caper. 

I know my piece was awful good, 
But the editor didn't care, 
'Twas awful mean to serve me so, 
And awful hard toi bear. 

O, dear, I try so awful hard 
Toi be a famous poet. 
Some people just turn up their nose, 
'Tis awful hard toi know it. 

I wouldn't dare to write a line 
But what's correct and lawful, 
So' if I fail, just bear in mind. 
My theme is one that's "Awful." 



75 



p 



MRS. CAUDLE. 

LEASE lend your umbrella, Mr. Caudle, I say, 
I have got to go shopping this cold, rainy day, 
For the children are ooit of stockings and shoes, 
And you will sit there just reading the news. 



I'm almost discouraged, Mr. Caudle, I am, 
You can sit there reading, as happy as a clam. 
And I've got to go out in this cold, soaking rain, 
Mr. Caudle, I say it's a horrible shame. 

Now, where's your umbrella, Mr. Caudle, I say. 
Sometime you'll be sorry you treat me this way, 
O, you're all wrapped up in your paper, I see. 
With never a thought of the children and me. 

I say, Mr. Caudle, can't you hear me at all? 
I want that umbrella — It's not in the hall, 
I'm almost determined to go out in this rain. 
And get my death-cold, and you'll be to blame. 

I say, Mr. Caudle, you act like a bear. 
If I get drenched through, do you s'pose you'll care? 
I tell you what, Mr. Caudle, if I get dripping w^et, 
ril buy an umbrella, — now, don't you forget. 



76 



T 



GRANDPA'S STORY. 

ELL me of the Parlor City, 

Said my grandchild as he clambered 

On my knee to hear a story. 

Tell me now, O tell me truly, 
Is it truth, or is it fancy 
What I hear, and what I guess at. 
All about the Parlor City ? 

Once you said you used to live there 
In a little house so dingy, 
Grandpa could you find the homestead, 
Could you find the old red gate post ? 
Could you row across the river 
With a firm hand strong and steady ? 
Could you climb the lumbering stage-coach, 
With your boxes and your bundles ? 
Carrying home the day's hard earnings 
To an anxious waiting dozen? 

Once you said an old canal boat 
Slowly moved on muddy waters, 
Drawn by horses on the tow-path. 
Could you see it would you know it ? 

Yes ! horses towed the old canal boat. 
Laden with its heavy cargo. 
Boy, you'll never know how grandpa 
Waded through in old canal-dom. 
Now where Chenango's playful waters 
Join with crystal Susquehanna, 
Glide the beats with arrow swiftness. 
Gliding gaily o'er the waters. 

Dear, dear child, the Parlor City 
Now is changed in name and nature, 

L.ofC. 77 



Now they laugh in scorn and wonder, 
When some quaint old fashioned fogy 
Spells with p — , just as we used to 
Binghamvpton — it sounds so ancient. 

Now we hear the heavy puffing 
Of the mighty rushing engine 
Snorting, coursing like a whirlwind 
Through the busy Parlor City, 
Now its streets are laid out nicely. 
Dwellings rise in stately grandeur, 
Poets write in song and story 
Of its great and daring heroes. 
Lawyers there, and wiser judges. 
Poets, preachers, knowing doctors. 
Easy chairs where sit the editors 
Waiting for their best reporters ; 
Printers there, and printers' devils, 
Merchants, dentists and the barbers, 
(Some get shaved for just a trifle.) 

By gone years, and memories olden 
From my mind are swiftly passing. 
But I see in rising greatness 
One bright star eclipse in brightness 
Other stars of lesser beauty 
With its motto ever onward, 
Binghamton, the Parlor City. 



78 



ONE SMALL LIFE. 

Suggested by reading a remark of President Garfield : "I 
am afraid that people will become weary of this making such 
an ado over one small life." 



A 



S 'round the world sad echoes roll, 
Deep indignation stirs each soul. 
That one should dare to strike a blow 
That fills the Nation's heart with woe. 

This is no time for party strife, 
A Nation prays for "One small life," 
A Nation pleads with burning tears, 
A world is charged with hopes and fears. 

Our President ! Long let him live ; 
A Nation's discord, God forgive; 
The dire assassin ! raise the cry, 
A worse than Judas ! Let him die. 

Our President ! May loved ones bear 
To him a nation's love and prayer. 
And may he live to hush all strife, 
A record great of ''One small life." 



79 



w 



McKINLEY, OUR FALLEN PRESIDENT. 

HOLE nations mourn ; and why this silent grief ? 
Why doth the soft winds chant a hushed refrain? 
The busy world drops care and toil just now 
And with one voice oi pleading cries for strength 
In this sad hour. Our nohle Chieftain kind. 
Whom none had cause to hate and all could love. 
So stricken down by anarchy's foul hand; 
He lies with folded hands so still in death, 
Life's struggles o'er. A nation's pent up grief 
Now cries for justice. Let our country rise 
And strike a blow at anarchy's foul breast. 
While our proud flag in honored triumph waves 
O'er this our own free land. No treacherous hand 
Shall tear our colors down, no hand o'erthrow 
Our government so strong, so firm, and true. 
Our wise and careful ruler peaceful sleeps 
While thoughts and sympathies from shore to shore, 
Join us in one deep rising tide of grief, 
And messages speed from lands across the seas, 
''God cheer and comfort her who bravely watched 
And faltered not," though but too well she knew 
He soon would pass beyond tO' unseen shores. 
Within the deep still chambers of the heart 
We mourn a nation's loss. Our brave, our slain ; 
But nearer, clearer, comes an echoing cry, 
Caught up by millions, loyal, strong and true, 
Anarchy shall be crushed, God speed the right. 



w 



SOWING AND REAPING. 

EARY gleaner, what has thou done, 
Toiling late till setting sun ; 
Is this thy song, "Nothing but leaves?" 
Did' St thou not gather golden sheaves? 



Gleaner in life's harvest field. 

The seed that's sov^n must surely yield; 

Life's sowing here is not in vain. 

The fields are riper with precious grain. 

The harvest fields are ripe with wheat. 

The willing reapers go and reap, 

And while they go and gather in. 

Most precious sheaves, for Heaven they win. 

There are weary ones that faint with care. 
And you may help their sheaves to bear. 
A rich reward is only won 
When thou shalt hear it said, "Well done." 

Sow not the seeds oif shame and woe 

For thou shalt reap, as thou shalt sow — 

A crown of life is only given 

To him who gleans earth's sheaves for Heaven, 



81 







OUR MISSION. 

N the mountain straying, 

Weary, lone and cold. 
Who will guide the wanderer 

Back into the fold ? 
Though the path be narrow 

And the tempest wild, 
Jesus stands in mercy 

Waiting for His child. 

Are there none to pity 

When the weak ones fall. 
None to tell the erring 

Jesus died for all ? 
None to tell the fallen 

Jesus will forgive? 
None to bid the dying 

Look to Christ and live? 

Who will carry water 

To the thirsty one ? 
Who'll protect the wounded 

From the burning sun ? 
Who will cheer the weary 

With a smile and song, 
Who'll forgive his brother 

Though he's in the wrong? 

Who will point the friendless 

To that home above ? 
Tell of Jesus' glory 

And His precious love? 
Who will tell the mariner 

On the ocean wide 
There's a port of safety 

O'er the swelling tide. 

82 



Would we be true disciples 

At the Saviour's feet 
We must raise the fallen, 

And the wanderers seek. 
Till joyful notes of welcome 

Shall through the heavens resound, 
"Ye have fulfilled your mission; 

That which was lost is found." 



83 



INDEX. 



PAGE 

A Dream of Vacation 7 

And They Sang a New Song _ " 

A Dream of Young America, and True America 7* 

AwfUL. 75 

Betsey Grim and Peter King 2,2 

Bessie's Dream 5^ 

Coventry M. E. Church _ 5' 

Dedication - 5 

Donation in the Olden Time 37 

Grandpa's Story - 77 

He Leadeth Me Beside The Still Waters 6 

He Giveth His Beloved Sleep - 64 

How Countrified - 69 

I Was A-Hungered, and Ye Gave Me No Meat 35 

Joe and I _ ^i 

John and Jane - 49 

Little Eva 10 

Lif^.. 48 

Lincoln Murdered 1865 - 57 

More Truth Than Poetry 3^ 

Memorial Day __ 39 

My Mother's Slippers 4* 

My Sweet- Voiced Mother __ 74 

Mrs. Caudle 76 

McKinley, Our Fallen President 80 

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep - 9 

Now I Lay Me Down To Sleep 2,5 

Nearer to Thee. 45 

Now Don't You Tell _ 53 

Our Martyr- President — McKJnley 13 

One Hundredth Anniversary of Anna Hungerford, Coventry 19 

One Small Life 79 

Our Mission - - - 8z 



PAGE 

Parody on The Old Oaken Bucket 12 

Paddle Your Own Canoe 16 

Practice and Prayer 67 

Read in Coventry at the Service, Memorial Day, May 30th, 1 89 1 a6 

Some-Time, Some-Where 8 

Shall We Know Them Over There 46 

Say Must Our Country Perish ? 54 

Sowing and Reaping 81 

The Royal Castle 14 

The Best Spare Bed 17 

The Dying Hero 20 

They Say So 29 

The Old House and the New 33 

The Children Are Coming To-day 41 

The Old House at Home 43 

The Way of The World 44 

To the Bereaved Parents of Lena, Daughter of T. D. and Eugenie Parker 52 

TheOld Organist 55 

TheOld School House and the New 60 

Tribute to Mr. and Mrs. W. H. Spencer, on their Twenty- Fifth Anniversary 62 

The Troubled Pastor 65 

The Deep Rolling Sea 66 

The Sleeping Child 71 

When The Mist Clears Away 28 

Written and Read at the Beardsley Re-Union in Coventry 47 



^^^s. 
■=^1^=^ 



Press of 

The Chronicle Publishing Co. 

70 State St. 

Bingham ton, N. Y. 



^p^ 






APR 19 1902 



APR. 29 1902 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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018 360 631 1 4 



